


Busby Berkeley, Technicolor, VistaVision Wonderful

by Ben_Solo_Good_Boy_Sweater_Emporium



Category: Pushing Daisies
Genre: Comfort, F/M, One Shot, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:00:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22761355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ben_Solo_Good_Boy_Sweater_Emporium/pseuds/Ben_Solo_Good_Boy_Sweater_Emporium
Summary: Chuck and Ned have a conversation in the dark of night.
Relationships: Charlotte "Chuck" Charles/Ned
Comments: 13
Kudos: 42





	Busby Berkeley, Technicolor, VistaVision Wonderful

“Tell me something you’d like,” Chuck’s voice was clear but soft in the darkness.

“Something I’d like?” The Piemaker was reluctant to admit that he understood exactly what his childhood sweetheart was asking of him.

He could not see her on the opposite side of the bedroom they shared, but he could picture very distinctly in his imagination the lips that replied, “Something you’d like. If we could.”

They had only very recently begun to have conversations of this nature, and both tacitly agreed that they were far easier to conduct without direct eye contact. Those moments before sleep quieted their tumultuous thoughts and feelings seemed best suited for the halting exchanges they both feared and craved.

“Umm…your eyelashes, I guess. I’d like to feel your eyelashes on my cheek while…while I was kissing you.”

Chuck’s small sigh was audible in the stillness. Though the Piemaker had avoided personal attachments for the majority of his life, since Chuck had been returned to him he felt the loosening of the shackles around his heart. Nothing brought him more joy than giving her joy. And so he spoke truthfully when she asked him to reveal the innermost secrets of his feelings for her, hoping in some small way to make up for the physical signs of affection they could not share.

“What else?”

“Your hair. I’d like to wake up with your hair all around my face. I’d like to smell your shampoo on my pillow.”

“Another.”

“I’d like to stand with you when you’re practicing crusts and show you how to move your fingers the right way, instead of standing on the other side of the kitchen and miming for you.”

“Ah.” He could tell she was smiling, though somewhat disappointed by his last wish. So he added, “And if I just happened to brush my lips against the spot behind your ear, I hope you wouldn’t be offended or think that I don’t take your baking talents seriously.”

She was definitely smiling. “Of course not.”

“What about you?” The Piemaker hoped she did not hear the slight tremor in his voice. He had been startled to discover that it was far more difficult for him to listen to Chuck describe her feelings than to describe his own. Wanting he understood; he could not get used to being wanted.

“Oh, there are so many, I don’t know where to start.” She rolled toward him. “I’d like to touch your forearms when you’re rolling out dough, or just brush the flour away when it covers the little silky hairs. I’d like to kiss the corners of your eyes when you smile at me and they get all crinkly. I’d like to be able to reach across and hold hands with you while we sleep.” She paused. “Actually, that’s pretty silly when you think about it, because if I could hold your hand, I wouldn’t be sleeping way over here.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” He beamed at her, though she could not see it.

“It’s funny you mentioned about the kitchen, because sometimes it’s all I can do not to wrap my arms around your waist and whisper sweet nothings in your ear while you’re dissecting some poor, defenseless piece of fruit.”

The Piemaker could picture the scene so clearly as she spoke that a queer sort of ache filled his chest. He remembered again what a dangerous game this was, and thought perhaps he should put a stop to it before the ache became unbearable. But Chuck had a final wish to describe.

“I had a dream about you a few weeks ago. I’ve never had a recurring dream and it’s probably a good thing, because if I could have that dream every time I went to sleep…well, Emerson wouldn’t have to worry about me being around so much.”

“What was I doing in your dream?” He both wanted and did not want to know.

“You were lying next to me. And you were kissing me, gently, like I was a soap bubble you were terrified of breaking. Every time you kissed me, you whispered against my lips.” Her voice was so quiet that Ned struggled to hear her over Digby’s noisy respiration from the floor below.

He rolled toward her. “What did I whisper?”

“My name. And that you loved me.”

“I do love you.” It was the first time he had told her with words. He suddenly wished he could see her face.

“I know. It was so real, so intimate. About ten times a day when you start talking to me, I find myself just staring at you, remembering that dream and wishing more than I’ve ever wished for anything that I could know what that would really feel like. Sometimes I think it might be worth it to try and find out.”

The Piemaker was deeply distressed by the hint of despair he noted in her voice. It was not an emotion with which Chuck frequently trafficked.

“Let’s play a new game,” he suggested.

“Are we playing a game?”

“Only in the verbal sense.”

“What do you propose?”

“How about ‘things I absolutely love and can experience any time I want to?’”

She was smiling again. “It’s your game. You start.”

“I love that there are shoes all over this room that don’t belong to me that I trip over constantly. I love the idea of being mildly annoyed by that for the rest of my life. I love that I can’t look at any of the food packaging materials in my kitchen without getting a ridiculous grin on my face. I love falling asleep every night listening to the sound of you breathing. And I love that before you came back to me my life was dreary black and white—not the rich, tonal black and white of a great old film, more like watching a tiny, awful ’50s TV set with bad reception—but now you’re here and everything is Busby Berkeley, Technicolor, VistaVision wonderful.”

“I love that you say I came _back_ to you, like you knew we’d find each other all along.”

“Hoped, maybe. Wished. Prayed, a little. Does that make me creepy?”

“No, it makes you magical.”

They lay in silence, listening as Digby joyfully pursued a host of imagined creatures through fields of deepest green and yellow.

The next night, as the Piemaker prepared to retire, he found Chuck already asleep and an unfamiliar pillow on his bedstead. He drifted off with a smile on his lips, the smell of Chuck’s shampoo adding color to his dreams.

~fin~

**Author's Note:**

> The last of three "Pushing Daisies" stories I wrote a million, billion years ago. Hope you enjoyed it!


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